Monday, September 28, 2009

Mass Accumulate

One day we'll read about the past, sit back, relax, and laugh. You'll shrug and I'll smile, and we'll freeze ourselves to come back together again hundreds of years in the future. After we defrost, I'll mention the times we thought about the past and you'll laugh and we'll go down the same lane again in our virtually programmed minds. The sun will set in the sky, on the dot, as a slave. Controlled like Gulliver and made to function for the purpose of tiny creatures with larger desires. We'll simulate a cafe and drink elixirs together that double as social tools, like cigarettes once were, like coffee once was, and we'll push buttons to smile and other ones to connect simultaneously. I'll spread a blanket on the beach and we'll hide underneath sheets, like we did when we were kids, imagining other universes. Yesterday, we sat without a towel on the grass and watched the humans live. They played and played in funny ways and that little kid's laughter was contagious as he rolled down the path riding with his brother on top of a skateboard. You were right, we were lucky to be there at that moment. "This park is in really bad shape, but I still feel grateful to be here right now." you said and I felt the same way. This was where people chose to spend their free day, together with food and kids and footballs and playgrounds and poorly maintained rolling hills of grass. We were lucky to be there. On a quiet star, too quiet for this planet, all sound is created and muted. There are no echoes, only us. We talk and the moments are alive. We stop and the past has died. Everything exists as it does only in the moments together. We could function this way if we wanted. But I'm so imperfect, I'm so defensively conditioned. I'm so enslaved to previous experiences. Just watch me. Just listen to the shit I say. Never transcending the things I had no control over. Personalizing the stimulus. Always reacting to the outer content and pushing away the spaciousness. Deep breathing and release. We are mass accumulations of everything we've felt and seen. I can see it in her well-trained body language and studied responses. Only there to help, assigned to help, for the world itself feels no pity. The world itself is not an easy illusion but a traffic jam of individual and separate realities, colliding and competing for control of an otherwise blank canvas. I fall short. I survive. I grow. I achieve. I move forward. I surpass. I hate. I deny. I stumble. I fool myself. I shatter. I think. I dream. I contradict. I concede. I overwhelm. I fall. I love. I do. Somewhere through the endless uncertainties and false walls of the mal-contrived, mal-informed, mal-prepared, chaotic mind, the true I, wriggles free and in the best of moments loves. Isn't that how you're supposed to end these things?

Thursday, September 24, 2009

To You.

You'll make it through
You're too stubborn not too

You'll find you're stronger
Than you ever would've guessed

You'll take you're power
and fight like a brave

You'll take your freedom
And wear it like a coat of arms

You'll hold yourself like a champ
And true love will call you friend

You'll confront the pain
Because it fears you.


A fierce light
A brightness so sharp 
You'll cut through mountains.

I believe in your greatness
I'm here for you. 

Hideous actions. This world is hideous sometimes. The washed-over western comforts flash all the more sudden and shocking when pain slices across present frames. The world is largely indifferent. People die and receive parking tickets. Tragedies become spoiled dinner reservations. Billboards advertise to starving souls.

Here I am, trying, grasping, clinging, to a desperate hope with no name. But I've seen it in her face. I've felt it walking home. I've found it, abandoned in nature, wrapping it's arms around my form. I've lost it so many times. Just like Peter's shadow. The best that we are, runs away. The oceanic pulse flat-lines. 


Life contains suffering. Everything is cultivated in it's sickly soil. When the flowers bloom they illuminate impermanently, breathe them in as long as you can, before they fall victim to an entropic atmosphere. A golden rule toward decay. Fight and fight, surrender and surrender, someone hear me.  

All I want to do is find a mechanic for the past. Machinations grinding and halting and sputtering agonizingly. All the while this rage sits on a low boil, scalding, chained onto the ground until the fighting creature let's itself loose or dies trying. I hate the apathy I was and I hate the useless occurrences of harm. I detest the illness of man.

Fortuna's Wrecking Ball

Guarded faith that there are eyes and minds that do not crave information in forty words or less. This is me; Flower pots dripping down walls, vines crawling along ceilings, and voices repeating the same conversations on a loop.

Personal weight and desire is the infinite variable.